Memory
by moonlighten
Summary: Arthur finds a project with which to entertain himself throughout his summer holiday. (Human AU. Sequel to Drift and Nice.)


Their great-grandfather had bought the Bentley back when the Kirkland name still meant something and the family money consisted of a fair bit more than the two hundred quid Alasdair keeps for emergencies in a biscuit tin under his bed.

Then, it had been sleek and beautiful, a triumph of post-war engineering, but now it's streaked with dirt and rust, and sinking into the ground as its corroded axles slowly buckle; genteelly decaying like the house and grounds and everything else they own.

"I thought I could do it up," Arthur says, patting the bonnet with the same fond tenderness as he does their ageing Labrador, Jess. A small cloud of dust wafts up between his splayed fingers – glittering as it catches the sunlight streaming in through the hole in the garage roof – and he leaves a perfect imprint of his hand against the scratched paint when he lifts it away again.

"What's the point?" Alasdair asks, nudging one of the flattened tyres with the toe of his boot. The blow isn't hard, but the Bentley shudders along with it, nevertheless, and its leftwards list is distinctly more pronounced afterwards. "We couldn't afford to run it even if you did. It'll probably fucking drink petrol. Cars like this always do."

Arthur's expression hardens. "The point is that I want to. I think it's a crying shame that it's just sitting here rotting when –"

"You know what I think's a crying shame?" Alasdair cuts in sharply, his voice a rough growl. "I think it's a crying shame that the roof's started leaking again, the plumbing in the kitchen is shot, and the ceiling in Michael's room is about ready to collapse. If you're that fucking bored already, then you can pick up a sodding hammer and help me fix some of that, okay."

Dylan wouldn't be surprised if Arthur was bored. The electricity was cut off the day after Dylan came home from university, almost a fortnight ago now, and use of Alasdair's ancient Ford is a luxury restricted to his weekly runs into Chester to stock up at the Tesco and B&Q. Reading soon loses some of its appeal even to ardent bibliophiles like themselves when there are no alternatives save the never ending demands of their crumbling home.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur spits, "what the hell do you think I was doing yesterday? Or the day before that? Or every single fucking day since I got back from Durham? I am supposed to be on holiday, Alasdair. I would like to actually _enjoy_ it at some point."

Arthur must know it's exactly the wrong thing to say just as definitively as Dylan himself, but his tongue and his anger have always run faster than his brain where Alasdair is concerned. Dylan is inflicted with the same problem himself from time to time, but he at least has the good sense to apologise immediately before there's any damage done, not stand his ground and stick out his chin defiantly; presenting a clear target as though he's baiting Alasdair into punching him.

Alasdair doesn't punch him, but his teeth do bare and his broad chest swells yet further as he sucks in a deep breath, his face flooding with colour. "It's been six years since I last had a holiday, Wart. Six _fucking_ years, so excuse me if I don't –"

"You know, I think Mum would have wanted us to restore the car someday," Dylan finds himself saying when he spots that Alasdair's hands have started tightening into fists. "She told me one of us was conceived in the back seat."

Which is, strictly speaking, untrue, as both Caitlin and Alasdair are the result of that particular liaison with Dad Number One on the night of their mum's twenty-first birthday, but he's convinced Alasdair would more likely want to smash the car into pieces rather than preserve it as a piece of family history if he knew that particular fact, as his big brother's prudery far outstrips what little sentimentality he might possess.

The confession does at least have the desired effect of quelling Alasdair's fast growing fury, and his snarl of rage is quickly replaced by an almost comical look of exaggerated disgust. "Fucking hell, Dyl," he says, taking a hurried step away from the Bentley. "Me, you and Cait used to play in the back of that thing and mum never said a word to stop us."

"Probably because it's not a contagious condition, Aly," Dylan says as he bends down to wipe a clear spot on the back window so he can check on the condition of the fateful seat. Even more of the leather seems to have disintegrated since they were kids, spewing stuffing into the footwells and across the parcel shelf, though their names, scrawled across the backrest in bright blue permanent marker, are still visible.

When he straightens up again, Arthur catches his eye and then offers him a large, grateful smile, probably convinced that Dylan's interjection had been made in defence of his position rather than simply the first thing that came to his mind which might distract Alasdair. Dylan returns the smile tentatively, feeling a little deceitful.

"It won't cost you a penny, Alasdair, I promise," Arthur says, obviously feeling bolstered by the imagined support. "I'll buy everything I need myself."

Alasdair seems far more eager to get away from the Bentley – monument to maternal lusts – than he is invested in winning the argument, nearly tripping over his own feet as he spins around, so great is his haste to escape the garage. It makes the, "Jesus, do whatever the fuck you like," he shouts back over his shoulder feel like something of an empty victory to Dylan, but Arthur seems nothing but delighted by it, his grin broad and eyes shining as he leans over to caress the car's bonnet again.

"You are going to be beautiful," he tells it quietly.

Dylan immediately decides to follow Alasdair's example and leave them alone for a while.


End file.
